


The Mysterious Mr E

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, No Sex, References to past minor character death, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 18:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3300167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mordred is fourteen years old, gay and terrified. Finding his fragile world blown apart when the mysterious Mr E, a figure from his dad’s past, starts work at his school, can he summon up the courage to hold on to those he loves? As he embarks on his perilous journey through adolescence, he slowly discovers that he has more allies than he ever knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mysterious Mr E

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlocked18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlocked18/gifts).



> For Merlocked18. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! I made you some AAAANGST! Sorry there's no sex in it, I promise I'll make up for it soooooon! Oh, and ODD birthdays beat EVEN every other year. 
> 
> Rated teen and up for bad language and reference to sexual feelings. 
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a fanwork. They're not my characters, I'm not getting paid.
> 
> Beta'ed by the wonderful Tari_Sue, who gave me the courage to carry on. Thank you so much bb <3

Today was a risotto day. Mordred’s favourite. Say what you like about his dad, he bloody well knew how to cook.

Not wanting to share, Mordred scuttled to an empty table in the school canteen, and started to shovel it in. But it was no good; no sooner had he sat down than Kara plopped her tray of boring school sandwiches down by the chair next to his, and the delicious smells that wafted out of Mordred’s flask quickly attracted Kara’s attention.

“That smells, like, gorgeous?” said Kara, pulling out her chair. It was one of the ones with no plastic on the bottom, so when it scraped across the floor it let out an unearthly screech, and several people looked round. “Oops!” she said, settling down at his side and nosing over it as usual. “Can I have a bit?”

“Eat your own bloody lunch!” Mordred sighed, and begrudgingly passed her a forkful, before grabbing it back to ladle more into his grateful mouth. Honestly, she may be his best mate and all that, but it was his lunch!

“Language, Mordred! This is, like, amazing? Did your dad make it?”

“Yeah!”

“Is he still single?” said Kara, with her mouth full. “Mmm! Because, like, in two years I’ll be legally old enough to marry, innit?” She swallowed, making her voice sound suddenly clearer. “And your dad’s, like, totally dreamy? And he can cook? My mum’s, like, hopeless at cooking? And she always packs me the same sandwiches? Like, I’m a bit fed up with cheese and pickle? I’m going to marry your dad, like, when I’m 16, I mean it? And then I’ll be your stepmum, and you’ll have to give me your risotto?”

Kara, like all the other girls in his class, always ended sentences with a question mark. Even when they weren’t questions. So Mordred was well aware that most of the time he wasn’t required to answer. Mostly he just nodded and keep eating. But sometimes Kara would come out with something that he couldn’t let pass.

“You’re not classy enough for my dad.” Waving his fork at her to emphasise his words, he grimaced when a clump of rice fell onto the table. He scooped it up with his fingers, licking them with gusto. “Plus, he hasn’t dated anyone in about three hundred years. And this risotto? All mine.”

“That’s, like, so unfair?” She pursed her lips together, as if to make her grumpy face, but then her eyes widened and her demeanor changed. “Hello Mr Emrys!” she said, suddenly demure and simpering, like all the other girls in Year 9 whenever Mr Emrys walked into the room.

“Good afternoon, Kara, Mordred!” Mr Emrys stopped as he walked past their table and smiled at them. Her answering dumbstruck expression made Mordred roll his eyes as he jabbed his fork back into the flask. Mr Emrys was all right, as teachers went, but he was a friend of Mordred’s dad, and therefore best avoided at school, except in French lessons. In fact, if possible, best avoided for those as well.

At least Kara waited until he was out of earshot before she started squealing about how cute he was. Some of the other girls were a lot less discreet. Kara was all right, most of the time, when she wasn’t trying to nick Mordred’s food.

“So, you still fancy wossname, Daegal, then?” said Mordred. Having polished off the contents of his flask, he felt safe to pursue the conversation.

“Daegal? Nah, he’s just so immature,” said Kara, her eyes still trailing around after Mr Emrys. “I want a real man, not, like, some spotty little boy?”

“There’s no point having a crush on Mr E, Kar, he’s twice your age. More than! He’s nearly the same age as my dad. They’ve known each other for, like, ever.”

She fixed those huge eyes on him. “So, what, are you jealous, then?” she said, sidling closer to him, and putting her hand on his knee.

He nearly leapt ten feet in the air, and felt his face flame as he protested. “No!” he squeaked, batting her hand away. “I’m not… I mean… Kar! We’re like, friends. Don’t! You’re… you’re not my type!”  She really, really wasn’t.

She laughed and patted his arm fondly. “Kidding! But we’ll have to hook you up with someone, soon? You’re nearly 15?  Like, there’s no way you can make it to 15 years old without having a snog? So, who’s it to be? There must be someone you like? Alice, maybe? Or Sefa?”

Flushing so badly that he thought he’d set fire to the vile-green canteen curtains, he shook his head. “No!” The vehemence of his tone probably gave the game away, but he could be stubborn when he wanted. “No one.”

His mum had a special, detached expression that she reserved for occasions like this. Mordred had been practising it in front of the mirror. Taking a deep breath, he tried it on Kara now, pursing his lips and shifting his attention to some spot on the other side of the room, and God, he hoped she wasn’t a mind reader, because at that moment, he could see the object of his current insane crush, sitting over on the other side of the dining room with the rest of the Year 13 First XI football team, and no-one could know who it was, no one, he would die if anyone found out. And just then, it was as if the gods were playing with him or something, because just as his gaze strayed across the dining room, Lance himself looked up, and actually smiled at him, a sweet-eyed natural glance that made all the blood that was currently residing in Mordred’s face drain to his boots, leaving nothing but an empty husk in its wake, and then return to pool in his groin.

“No one,” he croaked, voice barely a whisper, his throat suddenly dry. “No one at all.”

Fuck. He was doomed.

Pushing his chair away from the table, he stood and pulled Kara to her feet. “C’mon,” he said. “Put your sarnies away. It’s nearly time for science club.”

*

Thursdays were Mordred’s favourite days. Because, for a start off, they had football practice after school, and so did the Year 13s. If he was lucky he would see Lance in football shorts, and maybe Lance would notice him playing, and pick him for the under 15s squad, and then he could talk to Lance afterwards, and maybe even see him in the boys’ showers, which would be amazing.

And then, there was the fact that he didn’t have to catch the bus back to his mum’s on Thursdays, because of football, so Dad would come and pick him up, and all his friends were really jealous of the car, and some of them, like Kara, also fancied his dad, although he couldn’t see why. But Kara fancied everyone in trousers, or so it seemed sometimes. She only ever saw Dad looking all neat and tidy in his bright red Jag and his dark suit and his sunglasses and all, she never saw him like Mordred did, sitting on the sofa in a scruffy old tracksuit, scratching his balls and shouting at the telly like Homer Simpson.

But, yeah, he liked Thursdays. Sometimes, like today, if there was a match on with a neighbouring school, Dad would get out of the car and come and cheer the final minutes of his game. Mordred liked those days best of all.

Today was particularly magical, despite the fact that it had been pissing down with rain all day, and the playing field was gross and slippery with mud. Spurred on by the distinctive sound of his dad’s laugh over on the touchline, Mordred put on a spurt of energy and somehow managed to punch the ball into the back of the net with a nifty left-footed shot that made everyone on his team run over and thump him happily on the back. The opposing team slunk away like a bunch of dogs who had been caught nicking sausages out of the fridge. Mordred’s dad ran onto the pitch with no thought for his posh black shoes in the mud, and actually picked him up to carry him off, and that was brilliant.

And then, best of all, Lance himself came over, and introduced himself to Mordred’s dad, and said how brilliantly he’d done, and that next year when he was in Year 10 he should be captain of the under 15s. Mordred felt so happy he thought his head would explode.

Dad got mud all over his Armani suit, so he came back to the boys changing rooms to mop it up with a hanky while Mordred went off for a shower. When they were all cleaned up they made their way back to Dad’s car, and Mr Emrys was there, propped up against the car as if he’d been waiting for them. Mordred couldn’t help wishing Kara hadn’t gone home early, she’d have loved this! Dad and Mr E, all in one place at the same time!

“Merlin!” said Dad, with that big, dopey smile of his, jogging over to shake Mr Emrys’s hand. “How are you? How are you settling in?”

“Fine, thanks, Arthur!” said Mr E, clasping his dad’s hand with both of his, and shaking it vigorously. “Brilliant, actually. Loving the new school. The kids are great.” The two of them were still shaking hands and beaming at each other, for about ten minutes. Honestly, how long does it take to shake someone’s hand?

“I’m so glad you came back,” said Dad, softly, grinning like a loon. They were still doing the whole hand-shaking thing. Quite frankly it was beginning to get embarrassing. Maybe if you were really old friends it took longer to shake hands than if you have only just met.

“Me too! It’s a lovely school. I’m really glad I applied, thanks for encouraging me. And I see that Mordred, here, takes after his Dad on the football field!”

“I know! Mordred’s got a good right boot on him!” Finally his dad paused the handshake for long enough to tousle Mordred’s newly washed hair. “Chip off the old block!” he added, with a lopsided grin.

“Dad!” Mordred frantically tried to smooth his hair back, glancing about him to check who could see. What if Lance was watching? Dads were so embarrassing.

“Thanks for offering me a lift, Arthur,” said Mr E, while Mordred’s dad clicked on the key fob. The Jag made a friendly chirruping noise. “It’s really good of you while my motorbike’s off the road and all.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Merlin. I’m grateful that you’re off the road. To be quite frank, I was astonished that they awarded an idiot like you a motorcycle license in the first place! The road is a safer place with the damn thing permanently at the garage. Giving you the odd lift here or there is a small price to pay for the town’s continuing road safety.”

“Oi! That’s a slanderous statement, Arthur, Kilgarrah’s only off the road because the mechanics can’t seem to work out what’s wrong with him. No it’s okay, Mordred, you sit in the front.”

Mordred punched the air. Sitting in the front meant that he could fiddle with the radio. His dad always had it on some really boring talk channel like BBC Radio 4. Mordred secretly retuned it to Uncensored FM and wondered how long it would take his dad to notice.

It took ages, today. Dad was too busy chatting to Mr E, over his shoulder. They dropped Mr E off at a little cottage on the outskirts of town, and then circled back towards Dad’s house. By this time a big queue had started to build up. Dad let out a brief tsk of frustration. And that was when he finally clocked.

“Mordred,” he growled, punching at the knob on his steering wheel. “You’re a total menace.”

Mordred chortled. That was a record, thirty two minutes of Uncensored FM, including two rap tunes that included bad swear words.

“Mr E can come with us any time, Dad,” said Mordred, smugly, “If it means I can listen to Doh-Zee uncensored.”

Dad chuckled. “Mordred, my son, if you play football like that again, you can listen to anything you like. I was so proud when you banged that shot in, I could have jumped for joy. I did jump for joy! I have the mud stains on my trousers to prove it.”

“But Mum says…”

“I’ll clear it with Morgana,” said Dad, and he stopped smiling, which made Mordred feel sorry he’d brought it up. But at least he didn’t start shouting.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, sinking back into his chair.

The sudden dampener didn’t keep his spirits down for long. It had been a brilliant day, the glow of the football triumph mingled with the joy of being praised by his dad, and by Lance, and the fact that Dad hadn’t moaned about the mud or got into a temper when he mentioned Mum. Mordred felt a warm sense of contentment rising and expanding in his chest.

“I’ll always be proud of you, Mordred,” Dad went on. Mordred wished he wouldn’t use his serious voice like that, it always reminded him of that awful day when he told him that Mum was moving away, and for a horrible moment he wondered if Dad had found out his secret, and it made him feel hot, then cold again, but then Dad’s voice didn’t sound quite the same as it had that time, there was a warm, almost fond tone to it. “You know that, right? You could play football like a clumsy ham-footed oaf, like Merlin, and I’d be just as proud.”

Dad paused then, and it seemed like he was expecting Mordred to speak.

“Yeah,” said Mordred, to fill the gap. “Thanks.”

“Just try not to get any girls pregnant before you’re old enough to look after the baby, okay?”

“Mmm,” said Mordred, thinking: _Not much chance of that happening. And, oh God, please, don’t let this be another one of those conversations._ Dad had tried to talk to him about sex before, and it was always humiliating. He buried his face in his scarf to try to hide from the potential embarrassment.

Clearing his throat, Dad carried on. “I know Morgana and I… well, er… we have had our differences. And we don’t get along any more. But it’s not your fault, okay, Mordred? And there’s one thing we both agree on. I love you, and I want the best for you, and so does your mum. And we always will, no matter what. Okay, mate?” The car inched forward a bit, and then stopped again when the traffic light went red.

At that moment, Mordred wondered for just a second if he could tell his Dad his secret, but it was just too big, it wouldn’t come out of his mouth. It was stuck in his throat, stuck there, and nothing would go in and out of his mouth when he felt like that, with this great big lump in the way, so he just nodded, and wondered what Dad would say if he knew, if he’d still feel the same way, if he’d still be proud of Mordred, or if he’d go all cold, like he did when he and Mum were living together and they used to fight all the time, not with weapons but with icy words and icier silences that cut worse than any dagger.

“Mmm,” he said, wanting to say so much more, wanting to blurt out that he liked boys, that he didn’t think of girls, not like that, but he couldn’t. “Thanks, Dad,” was all he could manage to whisper, and he was glad Dad was concentrating on his driving, because he could feel his lips droop and his eyes prickle, and thought his expression might tell the story, it might be an expression that said “I’m gay, Dad, I’m queer, I like boys. Do you still love me, even though I’m not like everyone else?”

So he turned up the radio instead, and stared out of the window at the rain spattering against it, fantasising about catching a glimpse of Lance’s arse in the showers.

*

When they got home it was pretty late, so after the usual nagging about shoes and coats and wet gear all over the hall floor, why were parents so obsessed with floors? Dad went to the kitchen to start cooking, and Mordred ran up to his room to do his homework.

But just as he fired up his computer, he gave in to a sudden whim. Rather than going straight to the MyMaths website, first he typed “ _how 2 tell dad im gay_ ” into the search engine, just to see what it came up with. He was surprised by how many responses there were. Mostly he got articles or blogs advising him to keep quiet until he was older, in case of a negative reaction, and although he had to tamp down a tiny flare of disappointment, he thought that was probably the best idea. The truth was that he didn’t know what Dad would say. Mordred didn’t want to think of Dad as one of those people who would react badly, but then again once he’d told him, there was no untelling. Maybe it would be okay. But maybe there would be lots of drama and angst and urgent phone calls to Mum, and pointy fingers of blame, and screeching matches about whose fault it was, and he didn’t want that to happen.

There had been a time, back when they first separated, that Mordred had longed for Mum and Dad to move back in with each other so they could be a proper family. But over the last few months he’d grown to realise that life was calmer if they were kept apart. When Mum was around, Dad just got really grumpy and angry all the time, and Mum got really bitter and sarcastic. Mordred had to creep round the place trying not to get caught in the crossfire. It must be a bit lonely for Dad, at home on his own, when Mordred was staying with Mum, though. It’d be nice if Dad could find someone else to share the house, like Mum had Aunt Morgause, and Uncle Cenred. Mum was never lonely, even if Uncle Cen was a bit of a beardy weirdie. Dad looked sad sometimes, especially if he thought Mordred wasn’t paying attention, but he did keep saying that Mordred was all the company he needed. So that was okay.

Realising that he’d been staring at the screen for about half an hour, Mordred was just about to type “mymaths” into the URL bar, when another thought struck him, and he typed ““gay porn” instead, almost expecting loads of alarm bells going off. But instead, a list of loads of sites appeared, with names like “mantube” and “gayflicks”. Mordred wasn’t sure what to feel about that, and he was a bit scared about getting viruses and things, so he didn’t click any of the links, and just then Dad yelled upstairs that dinner was ready. Suddenly famished, he carefully exited from all the incriminating web sites, and pushed the computer shut, just to make sure. As soon as he was sure he’d covered his tracks, he raced downstairs, two stairs at a time.

*

Fridays were shit.

Double French in the morning, then History before lunch, and Philosophy, Religion and Ethics in the afternoon. Mordred particularly despised PRE but it was one of the subjects that they had to do for their GCSEs at his school.

This Friday didn’t start too badly. In their weekly whole-school assembly, they droned their way through “We plough the fields and scatter”, and then Mr Gaius, the headteacher, gave them all a lecture about the importance of keeping their school uniforms neat, which gave him and Kara a great opportunity for a game of “eyebrow bingo”.

It was only really in French that it started to go downhill. He slung his bag under the table and slumped into his chair, as usual, then winced when Mr E asked them all to get their homework out. After a brief moment of warring with himself, Mordred put his hand up.

“Sorry, Mr Emrys, sir, I left my book at my mum’s house, and I stayed at my dad’s last night.”

Mr E frowned at him. “That’s exactly what you said last week, Mordred. I know it’s difficult, but I do expect better from you. See me after class.”

“Sorry, sir.” Merlin could feel his lips settle into a morose pout. Mr E may have all the girls swooning at his feet, but when it came to homework he was just like all the other teachers. Bloody teachers were all the same. They didn’t understand what it was like, having your life in two different homes, and not being able to tell anyone about who you had crushes on. Well they could all fuck themselves. He could feel the hurt and resentment welling up in his throat and pricking at his eyes.

“It’ll be no use apologising to the examiners next year, Mordred. If you want to get that A* you’ll need to be better organised,” Mr E went on.

God, teachers did go on, didn’t they? It was just a stupid exercise book, you’d think that if he forgot to bring it, he’d start a nuclear war.

“Yes, sir.” He could tell it was all going to go downhill from there.

After French, after Mr E had dismissed the class, and they’d trooped out, Kara making faces at him as she went, instead of launching into a lecture about organisational skills, Mr E came and sat down next to Mordred, leaning on the desk and trying to make eye contact.

Instinctively, Mordred looked the other way.

Mr E sighed. “Look, you’re a bright boy, Mordred, and you have a retentive memory. You could be brilliant at French. I just want you to realise your potential, okay?”

Mordred nodded, gazing up at the window, down at his shoelaces, anywhere but at Mr E’s concerned-looking face, and not speaking because he didn’t trust his voice not to crack.

“I know things are difficult at home, but your parents have been separated for a while, and I get the feeling that’s not it. Is there something else bothering you, Mordred? I know a lot happens when you’re fourteen. You can always talk to me, if you want to work something out. I promise that if there’s something the matter I won’t tell anyone unless you tell me it’s okay. Not even your dad, if that’s what you want.”

God. Mr E was actually being nice, which worse than the telling off he’d been expecting. He shook his head. “No, I’m fine,” he said, hoping Mr E wouldn’t notice the way that this mouth wobbled. Then the bell went for their next lesson, and Mordred stood up. “Can I go now?”

Mr E sighed again and nodded.

Mordred got out of there as fast as he could, slamming the door behind him.

Kara, who was waiting outside, jogged along beside him. “Oh my God, Mordred, like Mr E totally went for you, right?”

“Nah,” said Mordred, “He was being all nice, which was awful. And I tell you one thing.”

“What?”

He smiled, grimly. “I never thought I’d be grateful to have to go to my History lesson!”

That’s when a teacher yelled at them for running in the corridor, and then they were late to History.

Mordred hated History. Apart from anything else, Miss Smith was a right bitch. She didn’t fool him for one second with her dimples and her sympathetic-looking smile. Everyone said she was a pedophile because once, when Lance was in Year 12, she gave him a lift home from football, which obviously meant they were shagging, and that was disgusting, not to mention illegal. Mordred didn’t believe the rumours. Lance was too good for her. Lance could have anyone he liked, there was no way he’d settle for a twenty-five year old History teacher who wore frumpy skirts and had a mole.

When they finally pushed, breathless, through the doorway, Miss S was standing at the front of the class, lecturing Sefa and her gang about their uniforms. Honestly, you’d think having a skirt that was half an inch shorter than regulation would make all the men in the neighbourhood turn into vampires, or something. After threatening the whole class with detention, Miss S turned to the blackboard and wrote “Enclosures Act!” on it.

Kara smirked at him while Miss Smith’s back was turned, and flipped a scrunched up piece of paper at him. It landed squarely on his lap. His hand closed over it, just as Miss S turned round, and glared at him.

“Is something the matter, Mordred?” said Miss S.

“No, miss.” Mordred put on his best innocent expression.  

She frowned at him but then turned back to the blackboard.

Taking care to hide the piece of paper under his desk, and keep his arms really still, Mordred straightened the note out. 

_“Bet Miss S is pregrs and Lance is the fathr. Pas it on.”_

Mordred scowled. She was a teacher, for God’s sake! There was no way Lance would stoop that low! He turned the paper over and wrote on the back.

_“More likely Val is the fathr.”_

Sniggering at his own wit, he tossed the paper back, but unfortunately Miss S turned round and saw him, and before he knew it she was giving them both a detention.

That was the other thing he really hated Miss Smith. She handed out detentions like they were smarties.

But he could cope with all that. All the detentions and the lectures and the disappointment and the way teachers went on and on about it like any of it really mattered, they were all fine.

No, the real problem, the shit icing on the shit Friday cake, was PRE, where Mr Monmouth didn’t let them sit peacefully, paying no attention and drifting off into a reverie about their favourite football-player’s thighs, oh no. Mr Monmouth made them have debates and express opinions about things that Mordred thought were, quite frankly, none of his bloody business.

Here was a prime example.

“So,” Mr Monmouth was saying. “I hope you’re all ready for today’s debate. As part of our module on human rights and prejudice, I thought it would be fun to discuss the religious and ethical issues regarding gay marriage, in the context of the modern-day Anglican communion.”

Mr Monmouth liked using really long words. If you were lucky you could get him to drone on at length about something, but he had this real thing about making people have debates

“Bloody poofs shouldn’t be allowed to get married,” said Val, who was a complete knob-end, glaring around the room as if to see whether anyone else dared to disagree with him. Val was the sort of bloke that would smack you in the face if he thought you disagreed with him. Most people had the sense to keep quiet and nod.

But Kara wasn’t most people. It was one of her most endearing traits. Most of the time.

“You’re just, like, a bloody homophobe?” she retorted, twin pink dots appearing on her cheeks. “If gay people want to marry each other, they should be able to?”

Mr Monmouth, the bastard, chuckled. “Strong opinions, Year 9! Well, that’s brilliant, but let me have some reasoned arguments behind your positions, rather than emotional gut reactions.  And, please, let’s use more respectful language.”  

Mordred folded his arms, wishing the floor would swallow him up, and praying to all the bloody gods that Mr Monmouth had told them about when they were doing comparative religion, that they’d miraculously stop telling him he’s a freak for liking other boys, and just grant him one wish, to be able to remain silent during this whole stupid lesson.

His wish was not granted though.

“Marriage should be between a man and a woman, for the purpose of producing children,” said Cedric, who was just a smarmy, pimply, self-righteous arsehole. Presumably he didn’t approve of gay people because they made spotty, underweight pimple-heads with a lax approach to personal hygiene look bad. “Gay people can’t have babies, so therefore…”

“Gay people can be parents, they, like, they can adopt, and they can look after abandoned babies, they can totally be parents, right?” said Kara, hotly. “Loads of gay people are, like, really good parents?”

“It’s not natural is it,” said Val, his face twisted in a vicious sneer. “You need a man and a woman to parent properly. Otherwise the kid ends up proper screwed up.”

The snide sidelong look Val gave Mordred, who, although he wasn’t the only child of single parents in the room, was the one whose parents separated the most recently, wasn’t lost on him. He bunched his fists under the table and willed his face not to give anything away.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Val, like, that doesn’t mean anything? I mean, look at you, you live with both parents, right? And you’re, like, a complete twat?” said Kara, seeing the blush that was creeping up Mordred’s face.

The class erupted into laughter, and Mordred had never been more grateful for his friend than he was in that moment. He flashed her a smile of thanks, even while Mr Monmouth told Kara off for using abusive language, and started preparing the class for the vote.

“Well I think everyone should be allowed to marry who they love,” said Kara.

Val’s eyes narrowed into little piggy spiteful slits. “No one agrees with you, Kara,” he said, in a low voice. “Just you wait.”

“Mordred does?” said Kara. “Don’t you Mordred?”

Feeling eyes on him, Mordred was struck dumb. Why did she have to do that? Why did she have to put him on the spot like that? Suddenly furious with her, he he shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice filled with quiet rage at her, anger that she could be so right, and so brave, and anger at himself for being too much of a coward to support her. It was too high a risk. “It’s unnatural,” he said, his voice sounding high and shrill, even to himself. “Gay people are freaks. They shouldn’t be allowed to marry.”

“You said it, pal,” said Val, with a satisfied nod.

Kara stared, mouth open, a look of utmost disgust on her face, so that he had to look down to avoid meeting her eyes.

Later, after Mr Monmouth dismissed them, she pushed her chair back loudly and hissed “I don’t believe you! Some friend you are,” into his ear, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. She pushed roughly past him and swept through the door without  looking back, and Mordred felt hot shame blooming on his cheeks.

He kept his head down, and walked slowly in her wake, waiting for everyone else to leave, hoping that they wouldn’t notice the tears that kept threatening to spring out and give it all away. He wasn’t really looking where he was going on his way out of school, and walked into a lamp post, ending up on his arse in front of what turned out to be a large group of sixth-formers. Their loud, uncaring laughter rang in his ears, but when he looked up to protest, and found himself staring into Lance’s warm eyes, dancing with mirth, his humiliation was complete.

“What’s the lamp post ever done to you, Mordred?” said one of Lance’s friends.

The sixth-formers all laughed, including Lance, blocking his path so he had to push through them to get to Dad’s car, eyes swimming and throat taut with hurt. When he got in the front seat, Dad kept darting concerned glances at Mordred as if he wanted to ask him something. Mordred slumped lower into his chair, burying his face into his jacket and biting the zip fastener.

“Is everything okay, Mordred?” said Dad.

“Fine.” Oh God. Not the inquisition, please, not now. He just wanted to go home and play FIFA 15 and eat junk food for hours. He rested his head on the cool window pane, making a halo of condensation with his forehead.

But Dad was never one for taking hints. “Mer—Mr Emrys was talking to me earlier and he thought there might be something the matter. Is it… is there…” Dad sighed. “Is there someone you like? Is that what it is?”

“No.”

“Look, you can tell me about it, Mordred, okay?” Dad’s voice had gone all warm and intimate, like it had that time when Mordred broke his arm. “I’m not going to bite your head off about anything. I was a teenager once, too. I remember what it’s like to… to be interested in people in a new way. It’s all right. It’s perfectly normal, okay? I’m not going to judge you.” His dad had this amazing earnest way of talking sometimes, that made you believe in him, made you trust him and want to confide in him. It was probably what made him such a good lawyer.

Mordred thought for a moment about just saying it, so it wouldn’t eat away at him any more. I’m gay, he’d say. I’m a shirt-lifter. I’m a poofter. I like other boys. And Lance won’t even look at me, he thinks I’m stupid, and I hate myself.

At that moment dad slammed on the brakes and started cursing the white van who’d pulled out in front of him, and Mordred, feeling the tug of the seatbelt, decided not to distract him from driving.

“I said no!” he said, instead. “I’m all right!”

And that’s when he remembered his flat denial of gay rights in class. Hating himself for his cowardice, he flushed deep red, pulled his feelings back in again and carried on staring out of the window.

He supposed that Dad must have got the hint, then, because he went all quiet. But he was wrong; Dad breathed in again, as if he was gearing up to something, and then started off on a weird tack about celebrities. “I see that John Elton’s got married, now, to his long-time partner. That’s got to be a good thing, right?” John Elton was a famous gay singer who’d been out and proud for, like, ever, and was a bit of a legend, and everyone liked him, even though he was gay, and a bit of a drama queen, because he was so friendly and confident. Mordred wished he could be friendly and confident like that.

“Whatever, Dad.” He really didn’t want to start talking about all that again.

Dad chuckled. “I bet there were a lot of flowers at the wedding.”

Mordred smiled, despite himself. “Kara reckons they should just go ahead and buy a bloody flower shop,” he said, and then, remembering that Kara wasn’t talking to him, he frowned again. “Dad, do you believe in gay marriage?”

“Yes I do,” said Dad firmly. “I believe in justice and equality for everyone, and gay marriage is part of that. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” admitted Mordred. “I suppose so. It’s just – we were talking about it in PRE today, and I got in a bit of a muddle, and I might have had an argument with Kara about it, because she was very pro gay marriage, you know how she gets? And Val went off on one about how gay people are unnatural and freakish, and then everyone else kind of agreed with him. And I might have said I did, too. And now Kara won’t talk to me.”

“Wow,” said Dad, indicating left and then driving slowly past the parade of shops, putting on the heater for a bit to defog the windscreen.

“It’s just – it’s so confusing, Dad. I wanted to agree with Kara, but everyone else was on Val’s side, and I didn’t want everyone laughing at me, so I just agreed with Val too.”

Dad sighed. “I can understand you not wanting to make yourself stand out, son, but how do you think poor Kara felt? Are you in the habit of agreeing with Val against her? Do you have such a good opinion of him that he’s worth losing a friendship over?”

Not for the first time that day, Mordred felt his eyes blur. God, he’d made such a mess of things.

“Sounds like you’ve got some making up to do with Kara, mate.” Dad added, pulling in behind a bright orange Sainsburys lorry at the roundabout, and craning his neck to peer round to see traffic coming from the right. “Sometimes doing the right thing is hard. I know… But that doesn’t mean you should do the wrong thing. I would like to think I have always tried to do the right thing, even when…” his voice tailed off, as if he was remembering something.

“But everyone else agreed with Val.” He hated the petulant tone that had crept into his voice.

“Has it occurred to you that everyone else was only agreeing with him because they don’t want him laughing at them either? And that secretly, most of them agreed with Kara, like you? Maybe if you’d stood up for her, you’d have found more people on your side. Sometimes, all it takes for things to change is for people to stand up and be counted.”

Mordred hated it when his dad was right about stuff. “Yeah,” he said, in a choked off voice, and he spent the remainder of the journey staring at his phone, willing himself to send Kara a text, and somehow not managing it.

*

He spent the weekend at his dad’s house. Normally, weekends at Dad’s were the best. Dad didn’t get his pants knotted about Mordred’s bedroom being tidy, and Mordred finishing all his homework before he can go on the X-Box, and Mordred folding his clean clothes before he put them away, like Mum and Aunt Morgause did. And Dad didn’t tease him about girls, or make him eat rubbery pork chops with over-cooked broccoli, like Uncle Cenred. No, Dad took him to football practice, and took him to the gym, and cooked him yummy curries and risottos, and let him stay up to watch _Match of the Day_.

But this weekend Dad was being weird, and Mordred didn’t like it.

It all started when the doorbell rang on Saturday.

“Can you get that, Mordred?” Dad yelled from upstairs. “I’m in the shower.”

Mordred sighed, and padded out to the front door, his pre-match bacon butty in his hand, making sure that he got a good run up so he could skid along the length of the smooth wood floor in the hallway in his stripy Camelot United under 15s football socks.

“Oh, hi Mordred,” said Mr E, standing there, looking all polite and enquiring.

“Mr Emrys? What are you doing here?” Realising it wasn’t the most welcoming way to greet his teacher, he added “Hi,” and give Mr E a feeble wave.

Mr E laughed. “Oh, don’t stand on ceremony, Mordred,” he said. “It’s the weekend, and I’m here in my capacity as your dad’s friend, not as your teacher, so please call me Merlin.” He stuck out a hand.

Mordred mirrored the gesture to shake it, and then realised that he had tomato ketchup on his fingers. “Sorry,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “I’m still - er -”

“Sorry!” Said Mr E at the same time, looking a bit pink as if he had realised the problem. “It’s ok, you don’t have to shake my—” he broke off abruptly, mouth open, staring with evident interest at something behind Mordred, so much so that Mordred turned round to see what was going on in the house that could be so very exciting. But it was only his dad coming downstairs in his towel, dripping water onto the wood floor. Mum would have yelled at him if she’d been here. Mordred winced at the thought.

“Arthur,” said Mr E, voice hoarse all of a sudden. Mordred wondered if he was going down with a cold.

“Ah!” said Dad. He coughed. Was he coming down with it too? “Aha. Merlin! You’re early! I haven’t taken Mordred to football yet.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” said Mr E. He sounded a bit breathless. Definitely a cold. Mordred tried to remember what his mum always gave him for sore throats. “I – erm.” He coughed and turned round, gesturing to the street. “I got a lift. I mean, with my flatmate. Erm, well.” He coughed again.

“Are you all right, sir?” said Mordred. Mum had always told him to show concern for people when they were sick. “Do you want some cough medicine? I’ve got some throat sweets? I can’t remember what they’re called, but mum says they’re very—”

“No! No, I’m fine,” said Mr E, firmly. “Just a little frog in my throat. And do, please, call me Merlin at home. I get enough ‘Mr Emrys’ and ‘Sir’ at school.”

“All right, Mr Emrys. I mean sir. I mean Merlin, sir.”

Dad was still standing there, his hair dripping a big pool on the floor. And then he coughed. There was definitely a coughing bug going around. “Well! Ahem. I’ll just… er…” he said, pointing up the stairs. “Back in a mo. Mordred, make Merlin a cup of tea will you?”

*

Daegal’s dad dropped him off at home after football, so he was earlier than normal and the front door was unlocked, which meant Dad was in. That was another thing Mum would yell about if she knew. One of these days maybe Dad would realise how much Mordred was protecting him from being told off by Mum! So, he just he clattered into the house, leaving his football boots outside to deal with later, because although Dad was less strict than Mum, even he drew the line at muddy football spikes on the wood floor.

“Dad?” Mordred called into the lounge, slinging his kit bag down on the floor and sliding into the kitchen on wet socks. He was beginning to get cold, the internal heat generated by the exercise gradually dissipating, so, receiving no reply, he bounded up to have a nice hot shower. But for some reason it was just tepid, as if Dad had used up all the hot water. Which he couldn’t have done. Surely he wouldn’t be having another shower? He only just had one, first thing this morning!

Cursing, Mordred rubbed off all the mud as quickly as possible, jumping up and down on the cold tiles, hurrying so to could get out of there. “Dad!” he called again, stumbling, half-blinded by shampoo, roughly dragging a towel over his hair and then hopping as he pulled on his pyjamas. “Jesus, Dad! There’s no frigging hot water!”

“Sorry, mate.” Dad’s voice drifted into the bathroom from the upstairs landing, and he heard a brief exchange of voices and a burst of laughter. Mr E couldn’t have gone home yet. “You’d better not use that sort of language in front of your mother!”

By the time Mordred was dressed, more laughter was echoing round the house from the lounge, accompanied by the sounds of FIFA 15 on his X-Box. Which was odd. He wasn’t used to noise in the house, unless he was the one generating it. And normally when Dad had friends round, like old Uncle Leon or one of his other mates from the five-a-side team, there were the sounds of earnest conversation, classical music, and, if UKIP was mentioned, impassioned ranting. Not hysterical giggles like these.

“What? I don’t believe it! That was bang on target!” yelled Mr E, as the fictional FIFA crowd roared their disappointment.

“God, Merlin, you’re a hopeless klutz.” Dad’s voice sounded helpless with mirth. Mordred could picture how he looked, all weak and flailing round the sofa. Dad could be so embarrassing sometimes! “A baby could have hit that! It was like a wide open bloody barn door! Don’t you have any 21st century skills?”  

“Oi! It’s my first time! Don’t be such a rude, arrogant, patronising... Don’t you have any manners, Arthur?”

Mordred smiled. There’s no way he’d get away with telling his dad off like that. He was beginning to like Mr E.

“Not when I’m playing against a left-footed nincompoop!” replied Dad, with a hint of mock outrage.

“You do know it’s not actual football, right? They’re not my actual feet hitting the ball, you hyper-competitive, pompous old clotpoll!” said Mr E.

Mordred’s jaw dropped. Wow, Dad must really like him to let him say stuff like that!

“I’m confiscating this controller for the sake of footballing harmony and—mff!” Mr E’s voice was suddenly cut off as if muffled by a cushion.

“Give it back!” There were sounds of a struggle, followed by Dad’s triumphant voice. “And I am only two years older than you! You’ve got a cheek calling out my manners, you insolent Welsh bumpkin!”

“I notice you don’t deny the charge of hypercompetitive, pompous clotpoll.”

“Just because you know those long words doesn’t make you cleverer than me, you know.”

When he pushed open the door to the lounge, Dad and Mr E looked up at him, both their faces morphing weirdly from helpless laughter one minute to something that he couldn’t name. Mr E was holding a cushion over his head, as if he was going to bash Dad round the chops with it.

“Oh, hi Mordred,” said Dad, resting his controller on his lap, but still holding it with both hands as if it was a precaution. “We were just… How was football?”

Mordred shrugged. “Okay.” It wasn’t brilliant, to be honest. He’d only scored one goal, and the other team had played dirty, so he was covered in scratches and bruises. “Typical bloody Mercia, to be honest.”

“Language, Mordred,” said Dad, without heat.

He couldn’t quite work out what emotion was clouding their faces for a second or two, but then he worked out that they looked guilty, and well they might, stealing his X-Box!

But it had been a long time since he’d heard his dad laughing like that, all carefree, his head right back so you could see his teeth, which was disgusting. It was a bit weird seeing Dad so happy, and a bit embarrassing, but kind of nice. He wondered who he would still be friends with, from school, when he was old, like Dad and Mr E. It’d be good to think that he would have someone he could just relax with.

Thinking about friends made him think about Kara, and whenever he thought about her there was a big anxious knot in his chest. So he shrugged, and said “It’s okay, you can play on it, I was going to go round to Kara’s anyway.”

*

Heavy, that’s how he felt.

His footsteps were ponderous, his heart felt like it was made of lead.

Normally, he’d send her a text before going round to her house, but she hadn’t been replying to any of his messages since that PRE lesson, so he didn’t. Which is why he now found himself standing outside her window in the rain, pondering the life choices that had brought him to this point. He’d been protecting himself. Kara didn’t understand! Being a gay boy in a state school wasn’t easy, you had to watch yourself all the time or you’d end up being beaten to a pulp, seriously. No-one could ever know! He couldn’t go round telling everyone to stop being homophobic. They would all find out! And it wasn’t like it was his fault that Val was a giant knob end.

He could hear Dad’s voice in his head, telling him that doing the right thing was sometimes not easy, and wondered for a minute what difficult choices his dad had made when he was growing up with Grandpa Uther. And then Dad had told him that other people in the class might have secretly agreed with him, but been too scared or ashamed to say so. He didn’t really believe that, he couldn’t think of anyone else in his class that was like Kara.

Which got his thoughts back to Kara, and how different she was from the others, and how brave she’d been in class, and why he liked her. Dad was right. He needed to make up to Kara. He’d rather be friends with her than in Val’s good books.

Biting his lip, he could feel his heart racing as he lifted his finger up and paused with it on the button of her doorbell. Was it really his job to apologise? She’d made loads of assumptions and blamed him for stuff that wasn’t his fault, but fundamentally he supposed he’d chickened out of supporting her, and left her on her own. She was right to feel angry. He tried to imagine how he’d feel if he was her, and his finger wobbled a bit. If it was the other way round, and Kara had left him in it, he’d be really angry, and hurt, and he’d probably yell at her and slam doors and stuff. Swallowing, and psyching himself up for a right bollocking, he screwed up one last ounce of courage and forced himself to press the button.

After all that, it was a bit of an anticlimax when the door remained stubbornly closed.

He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered towel-drying his hair, to be honest. Great rods of rain stung his face, and his hair dangled in big, wet clumps, dripping into the collar of his jacket. Giving the button one last jab, he sighed. She wasn’t going to answer, that much was clear. After all that, he’d have to come back and go through the whole rigmarole of mustering his courage again tomorrow. And what was even the point? She probably still wouldn’t talk to him, and even if she did she’d probably make him do something horrible, and then everyone would _know_.

So, in a way, he was thankful for the rain, because deep in his chest a knot of pain was drawing tighter, pulling at his rib cage and making his of his eyes feel hot. And at least the rain would hide the way this made his eyes blur and his nose stream from the hurt of it.

*

By the time he got home he was shivering, miserable and starving. Trudging up the steps to the front door, and finding it open, pushing it wide, he was not impressed to hear Mr E’s voice and a burst of Dad’s laughter in the kitchen. Jesus. How long had he been there? Mordred shouldn’t have to cope with a bloody teacher in the house on top of everything else.

Scowling, he slammed the door as hard as he could. He shrugged out of his sodden coat, toed off his shoes, kicking them into a dark corner with a hollow thud, and sprinted up the stairs, not bothering to quieten the echo of his footsteps, which were muffled by the heavy wetness of his socks anyway.

He fished in the higgledy-piggledy heap of not-clean, not-dirty clothes for some old jogging bottoms and a Camelot United football club hoodie, and sat, shivering, under his duvet, booting up his old HP laptop.

He’d only been protecting himself. Kara had no right to expect him to stand up to Val. She had no idea what was at stake! She didn’t understand what he was going through, no-one did. What was the point of even trying?

In a fit of despair, he typed “I’m gay and everyone hates me” into Google. He found some terrifying, bizarre and weird links, as well as an interesting thing called the Trevor project for kids like him, but he didn’t feel comfortable going any further.  

He could still hear raucous laughter from downstairs. Grimacing, he pulled on his headphones, turned his face to the wall and lost himself in misery.  

*

He must have fallen asleep, because a warm hand on his shoulder jolted him awake.

“Mordred? You okay?” Dad’s face was strangely gentle, as was the hand on his shoulder. “Mordred? Merlin’s gone home, let’s have some supper.”

Rubbing his eyes, Mordred nodded. Weirdly, he did feel a little bit better, but as he began to wake up properly things started to crash down on him again, and he shook his head, his eyes filling with tears.

“Hey!” Dad leaned forward, and put an awkward arm round him. “Things still tricky with Kara, then?”

“You could say that.” His voice sounded all croaky. It wasn’t just about Kara, but that was a convenient way of deflecting the discussion away. “She’s just not talking to me at the moment.”

Dad sighed, and shuffled along the bed so that Mordred could sit right up with his feet on the floor. “Look,” Dad said, looking up at the ceiling, then to his poster of Cristiano Ronaldo, as if for inspiration, and then back at Mordred. “Erm… Look. I’m sure she’ll come round soon. You just need to be honest with her.”

“Honest about what?” Mordred whispered, at the same time as catching a glimpse of his open laptop, which still directed to “The Trevor Project”. Feeling a sudden cold anxiety, he snapped the lid closed.

Luckily, Dad wasn’t looking that way – he was looking at Mordred, his face calm. “It depends what you’ve been lying to her about, Mordred.” His eyes were dark and searching. “It’s best to be honest to the people who care about you. You know who they are. The important people are not going to judge you or stop caring because you’ve trusted them with the truth, okay? I remember, once… Look, don’t run away from them. You owe it to yourself, and to them, not to run away.”

It was all very well for Dad to say that, but he wasn’t the one who’d have to live with the consequences.

Mordred nodded anyway. “Okay,” he whispered, feeling a little warmer despite himself. “Thanks, Dad.”

“It works both ways, you know, trust,” Dad added, cryptically, as he got to his feet, tugging Mordred’s hand. “You never know, she might open up to you about something that’s going on in her life, if you open up to her. C’m’on, big fella. I’ve got semolina flour, cremini mushrooms, pecorino cheese. Let’s go and make some ravioli.”

Dad’s home-made ravioli were legendary.

“Can I stay up and watch _Match of the Day_?” said Mordred, feeling his heart lighten.

Dad sighed. “I suppose so, if you promise not to make me late for my five-a-side match tomorrow morning.”

“I promise.” Mordred felt himself perking up a little bit.

*

School was shit.

It never used to be shit. It used to be fun, sitting with Kara and passing notes under the table. Helping each other with their homework. Bitching about Val and his knuckle-headed mates Percy and Julius from the rugby team.

But sitting next to Cedric, because Kara had managed to get herself moved across the room next to Sefa, was shit. Cedric had bad acne and bit his fingernails. Cedric didn’t use deodorant, you could tell. But worst of all Cedric wasn’t Kara. Cedric not being Kara was the shittiest thing about school.

The other problem of course was that he was staying at Mum’s this week, and staying at Mum’s was fine, really, most of the time. But Uncle Cenred and Aunt Morgause were really fussy about stupid things like football boots and old lunch boxes, and Mum didn’t give him hot lunches like Dad.

At least on Monday he managed to sit with Daegal and the rest of the under 15s footie squad, but Kara was right, they were annoying and immature, and kept flicking food at each other and peanutting everyone’s ties. On Tuesday he decided to sit by himself, which is why, by the time Wednesday rolled around, he was ready to throw Mum’s grotty sandwiches at someone, preferably Val, because the other shit thing about Kara not speaking to him was that for some reason, whenever he sat on his own, Val always bloody came and sat with him, with his bone-headed henchmen by his side.

And on Wednesday the tosser had just sat down, too close to Mordred, and started off on his usual poisonous rant, when Kara chose to walk past on her way out of the canteen.

“There she goes,” said Val, his face screwing up into a sneer. “Bloody lezzer.”

Kara must have heard him, because she turned round, and her eyes flicked between Mordred and Val.

“Excuse me?” she said.

Mordred felt his heart sink when he heard the way her voice shook minutely as she spoke. He half got to his feet, but then Val turned to him and scowled.

“You’re a bloody lezzer, ain’t ya.” Mordred had to tamp down a shudder at the venom in Val’s voice. “No wonder you haven’t got a boyfriend. You ugly, lezzy cow.”

Her face looked almost comical. “Fuck you!” she spat out, backing away. “You’re just, like, a, a homophobic, simian thug? You’re only having a go at me because I had the courage to disagree with you in public. No sane woman would go near you with a bargepole. And, for the record, no, I am not a lesbian. If I was I’d be out.” Her eyes flicked accusingly at Mordred again when she delivered the punchline, dead straight, no question mark in sight. “I’d be out, and I’d be proud. _I_ ’m not a coward.”

It was all he could do not to flinch. Luckily no one was looking at him, because he could feel all the blood drain from his face. It was as if she bloody knew, how could she know? How could she?

“You shouldn’t talk to her like that,” he blurted out at Val, standing up, shoving his chair away with a clatter. “It’s not right.”

He might have been imagining it, but he thought he saw her eyes soften a little before she turned on her heel and stalked out, barging through the canteen door with a bang.

“Shut up, lezzer-lover,” scoffed Val. “She your girlfriend, is she?”

“No!”

“Nah. Of course not,” said Julius, talking with his mouth full. Mordred could see mashed up bits of dinner on his tongue. Gross. “Cos she’s a lezzer, and you’re a fucking pooftah.” He threw his empty crisp packet at Mordred; he was too slow to deflect it, and it fell onto the floor. “Pick it up, you bloody shift-lifter.”

He could not let that lie. He could not. Because, if he did, they’d all _know_ , and then he’d die. They’d kill him. They looked like they were ready to now. Percy was absently clicking his knuckles one by one, his eyes trained on Mordred, while Val just watched, his face morbidly curious. It was as if he was waiting to see how Mordred reacted before he made his final decision to thump him.

Something cold and terrified knotted in his gut as he looked at their sneering faces, but still furious at their jibes to Kara he clamped teeth together and snarled. “Pick up your own fucking trash, you sexist, illiterate wanker.”

With that, all three of them rose to their feet, in unison, their chairs scraping loudly on the floor so that the attention of the entire canteen, including Mr E, who must have drawn the short straw on canteen duty today, was on them.

“We’ll get you, ” growled Val. “Stinking little cocksucker.”

“Oh yeah? You, and whose army?” said Mordred, balling his fists and leaning forward, while a small, distant part of him screamed at him to shut up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mr E begin to thread his way through the tables towards them.

But then it was if a switch had been flicked, and the three rugby tossers suddenly looked engrossed in their meals again. Mordred, still wound up as tight as a drum, nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

“Is everything okay, Mordred?” said Lance.

Mordred thought his knees would give way under him, and his heart leap right out of his rib cage. Lance! Lance DuLac, Captain of the Year 13 first XI football squad! Lancelot DuLac, leader, hero, and heartthrob was here, standing on his side of the table, touching him, and gazing searchingly into his face, looking all warm and concerned, and standing so close that Mordred could feel the heat emanating from him, feel the warmth of his breath on his skin.

It was a good thing Mordred was still terrified. Otherwise his inevitable massive hard-on would give the game away. As it was, he couldn’t speak, struck dumb by Lance’s deep, tender eyes.

“Erm – yeah, all fine,” he managed to stammer out, eventually. “I was just – erm…”

“Val?” Lance interrupted, stepping threateningly towards the rugby gang. “I thought I heard some homophobic language. Against the school rules, right, Val?”

“Suppose so,” said Val, sulkily, leaning back, and scowling because Lance was crowding him .

“Good. Because,” Lance added, and Mordred realised that five other strapping sixth-form footballers were lined up behind him, and that they’d started moving in on Val and the others like a pack “I was concerned,Val. Concerned for your safety. I would hate anything to happen to you. You know, if you said something or did something _stupid_.”

“Right,” said Val again, looking deflated. “Fine.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.”

“What’s going on?” Mr E had finally reached them.

“There’s been a misunderstanding, but it’s all right now, sir. We are just leaving. Come on, Mordred,” said Lance. “Do you want to come and kick a ball around with us?”

Mordred thought his heart would explode. “Yes!” he said, breathlessly. “I mean, yeah.”

Lance grinned at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. We footballers have to stick together, don’t we.”

A tiny, treacherous part of him screamed that Kara wasn’t a footballer, but she deserved people on her side as well. Squashing it ruthlessly, he nodded. “Yeah,” he added, again, smiling stupidly and following Lance out of the room.

Nearly tripping over his bag in his haste to exit the canteen, he took one last, triumphant look back through the door. And then, when he saw Mr E staring straight at him, brow furrowed, he wished he hadn’t.

*

By the weekend, Kara still wasn’t talking to him.

To be honest, he didn’t blame her.

She had taken to hanging out with Sefa’s crowd, but she didn’t really fit in and she looked pretty miserable most of the time. But she wouldn’t catch his eye, and anyway he was too busy to go grovelling to her. She should be happy for him, getting to play football with the under-18 squad at lunchtimes.

On Friday, though, when he saw her in assembly she had big bags under her eyes and looked terribly pale. Wondered if she was ill, he decided to go and look for her at break time, but she’d vanished and wasn’t even in their PRE lesson that afternoon. They’d moved on to safer topics, and as they had an interactive group session debating the ethics of euthanasia he was able to stop and think for a bit. He’d had a whole week without talking to her, and it was time to fix it, somehow, although he couldn’t work out how if she kept avoiding him like this.

He spent the bus journey back to Mum’s with his earphones on, going over all the possibilities, and still hadn’t worked out what he was going to do and say by the time he got there.

Weekends at his mum’s were okay, but he’d rather be at Dad’s. He loved his mum, he really did, but the trouble with it being one of her weekends was that he’d have to be in bed by 10, even on Saturday. No Match of the Day for him. Plus, his laptop was at Dad’s, and he’d forgotten his mobile charger, so he couldn’t even surf the web – not without asking Uncle Cenred for permission to use his work computer. Dad was going away somewhere, so he couldn’t even call him and ask to come round and pick them up. Uncle C was all right about it, quite decent really, but he wouldn’t take kindly to Mordred downloading nasty viruses, so he had to stay on tame websites like BBC Bitesize and Wikipedia.

And without his phone he couldn’t mend things with Kara.

“Is everything all right, Mordred? You’re terribly quiet this evening,” said Mum.

He shovelled a large forkfull of twirled-up overcooked spaghetti into his mouth to avoid answering, and nodded. “Fnn, thfnf,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes. “That bad, eh?”

That was the trouble with Mum. She was just too bloody perceptive. Trying desperately to think of a way out of telling her anything, he shook his head. “Nnn,” he said, still chewing. “Sfnn.”

Pursing her lips together, she leaned across the (desperately chic, brand new, shiny, white) table and nonchalantly removed his plate from under his nose. “Finish your mouthful and tell me what’s going on or you won’t get it back,” she said.

“What’s Arthur done now?” said Morgause, quick to blame Dad as usual.

Mordred sighed, watching longingly as his mum stalked over to the bin, holding his nearly full plate over it like an edible hostage, and swallowed the rest of his mouthful. “Fine! Everything’s fine. Can I have my dinner back, please?”

Frowning, his mum tilted the plate slightly towards the bin.

“No! Don’t!” he yelled, half standing, desperate to get his food back. That was the other thing about his mum, she knew exactly how to get him to do what she wanted. “I’m just… Okay, fine, I had a row with Kara, Dad’s fine, nothing’s happened. He’s gone away with… he’s away this weekend, that’s all. I’m going to make it up to her, it’s all fine, I’m okay, seriously!”  

Her eyes fixed on him, she walked carefully back to the table, putting his still-full plate down, but not letting it go just yet. “And?”

“And… Okay. Well, there’s this idiot in my class, and we argued, but it’s all okay because the whole under 18s football club rescued me and I’m playing football with them every lunchtime now, and they’re all great, but I’m worried about Kara, and I need to make friends with her again. And Dad hasn’t done anything. Honest. And please may I have my dinner again now? I think I have a headache coming on. And I’m starving! Mum, please?”

She pushed it back to him, slowly, green eyes trained on his. “Fine, Mordred, but you must tell mummy if anything else happens.”

Nearly crying with relief, he shovelled another forkful of pasta into his mouth, ignoring the way that this made Aunt Morgause grimace. “Mmm!” he said. “Mmmk.”

Just when he thought the interrogation had ended, Mum leaned forward again. Oh, great. This was a favourite tactic of hers. Lulling you into a false sense of security and then going in for the sucker punch.

“Before you have dessert,” she said, voice as sweet as the meringue he’d seen in the fridge,  “You can tell me all about who your Dad’s gone away for the weekend with.”

“Erm.” This wasn’t up to her usual standards. Puzzled, but also more than a little relieved, he answered. “Mr E.?”

“What do you mean?” Mum looked like she was going to explode. “Who is this mystery person? Does your father have a blind date?” She was hiding her mouth behind a napkin, and he could see that it was curling down at the edges.

Mordred frowned and replayed the conversation, then the light dawned and he laughed. “No! It’s not _mystery_ , not like that! He’s gone away with a person called Mr Emrys, I call him _Mr E_ because Emrys is a bit of a mouthful. Mr E equals Mr Emrys. Get it?”

“Merlin?” She sounded incredulous and her mouth made a big O shape. “He’s gone away with _Mer_ lin?”

“Yeah!” Mordred mopped the last vestiges of tomato sauce up with his bread. “He’s my French teacher. Do you know him?”

“Oh! I didn’t know he was back in town. We knew him before we… I wonder if… They were always good friends, until Merlin… But I suppose it’s none of my… Not now…  ” her voice trailed off, and she went uncharacteristically quiet, staring off into the distance.

“Coming fencing, tomorrow, Mordred?” said Aunt Morgause in a kind voice, putting her hand over Mum’s.

Grateful to her for changing the subject, because the atmosphere had become strangely awkward, Mordred answered, “Yeah, I’d love to. I’ve got footie in the morning, though.”

“It’s okay. Cen can take you to footie, can’t you Cen?”

“Yeah, no problem. No dirty football boots in my car, though.” Cenred’s beard had flecks of spaghetti in it, and they moved up and down when he talked.

They had ice cream with their meringues, but Mum can’t have been hungry because she didn’t really eat any.  

*

Things were still strained and awkward at school, although Kara’s attitude seemed to have softened a bit since his outburst at Val last week. She actually sat next to him in Biology, which was a relief. He didn’t fancy the gruesome prospect of watching Cedric draw the human reproductive system. Cedric liked adding crude representations of bodily functions to his sketches. For some reason, pencilling in drops of spunk and clouds of fart gas made him and Daegal snigger like two-year-olds. It drove Mordred barmy.

He’d had fights with Kara before, and he recognised the signs of a thaw. She would come round eventually, after he’d grovelled enough, but she’d probably make him do something daring and painful, first. Last time they fought, about animal rights, she’d made him wear canvas shoes to school for a week, which was against school regulations, so he’d got told off by Miss Smith, who confiscated his best Converses and gave him an after-school detention.

He shuddered to think what she might make him do this time, but he knew he’d do it, anyway, because she was his friend, and he missed her.

*

When Dad picked him up from football on Thursday, he was feeling a lot better. Kara had sat with him at lunch, again, today, albeit in silence, and he’d scored two goals in football practice.

The crowning glory came at the end of the game, when Lance trotted over from the sideline, his handsome face lit up with a delighted smile. He’d obviously just finished playing as well, because his colour was high, and strands of damp hair clung to his face. Grass stains were smeared across the front of his white shorts like an invitation, and he had scraps of mud stuck to the hairs on his thighs. He looked like some kind of footballing sex god. When he unselfconsciously wiped his hand on his shorts as he jogged, Mordred could hardly breathe.

And, then, and then, he actually clapped Mordred on the back. “Great job today, Mordred,” he said, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners.

Feeling suddenly weak-kneed, Mordred swallowed, hoping that his arousal wouldn’t show through the thin fabric of his kit. “Thanks,” he croaked.

Thankfully, his dad was there and able to save him from his discomfort. Dad was obviously feeling cheery as well. He ran across, picked Mordred bodily up off the damp football pitch, twirled him about, and actually whooped.

“Dad!” Mordred protested, but he couldn’t stop smiling, not after the game he’d had.

“Fantastic hoof you’ve got, son,” crowed Dad, plonking him back on the floor with a massive grin. “Did you see that, Merlin?”

“Well done, Mordred!” said Mr E, also smiling.

“Thanks, Dad, Thanks Mr E.” As Mordred ran off to the showers he felt euphoric.

When he got back to the car, damp hair clinging cold to his cheeks, Dad chucked something at him. “Catch,” he said.

Mordred caught it, of course. (Skills!) And then it was his turn to whoop. “Cheers, Dad!” It was his phone charger. He could finally get back to the land of the living. So, this time, Mordred sat in the back of the Jag. It didn’t seem fair to make Mr E sit in the back, he had such long legs and all. So Mordred sat and fiddled around in his bag for his iphone, and plugged it in to charger. They were home before he realised it, Mr E and all.

“Merlin’s dining with us tonight, Mordred,” said Dad, his tone nonchalant, but not meeting his eyes.

“Oh. Okay.”

Mr E coughed, as if trying to get his Dad’s attention, and nudged Dad. The two of them exchanged an oddly loaded look.

“Right,” said Dad, hovering on the doorstep. He coughed. “Erm, Mordred, Merlin might be staying with us tonight.”

“What?” Mordred frowned. “Why?”

“Look, Arthur, maybe it’s not the right time. You don’t have to--” Mr E began.

“Yes we do, Merlin. Look, Mordred, Merlin’s lost all heating at his cottage, because he’s a clumsy idiot with an uncanny knack for breaking things.”

“Look, it wasn’t my fault the boiler expl—”

“Shut up Merlin,” said Dad. “You’ve got no heating, the temperature’s going to plunge to minus 5 overnight, you’ve got a big speech to give tomorrow, and you can’t afford a B&B. Accept that you have friends for once, idiot.”

Merlin stood gaping like a fish, while Dad ticked off on his fingers all the reasons why Mr E should stay, and Mordred felt a deep sympathy for him. When Dad had made his mind up about something, he was like a bloody tsunami. Unstoppable.

Mr E obviously hadn’t worked out the impossibility of stopping Dad in full flow, yet. “Yeah, Arthur, but I’m not sure it’s appropr—”

“Don’t be silly, Merlin. Don’t waste your money on a B&B. It’s just for a few days, right?”

A few days? When did overnight turn into a few days? He had nothing against Mr E, but he couldn’t help thinking that this was going to make French lessons bloody awkward.

He wouldn’t realise just how awkward, though, until the next day.

*

Even if Mordred had been teleported into the school hall from a distant planet, he thought he would have known it was time for Friday assembly. Something about the way that the air echoed to a the slap-tap of a thousand pairs of shuffling feet, each of which was (largely) clad in standard school uniform shoes, mingled with the subtle but unmistakable scent of teenage bodies imbued with a thousand subtly different deodorants, made the environment unique. Mr Gaius’s entry was heralded by a vast whisper, the mutinous noise that could only be made when reluctant teenagers rose to their feet. He gestured with an absent hand that they should all sit, and at that point the majority of the brains in the room went back into a neutral, passive state.

Sometimes the teacher would try to get everyone to actively engage in whatever topic the head was going to waffle on about. Mordred hoped it wouldn’t be one of those Fridays today. He could do with another ten-minute nap.

He’d mastered the art of dozing with his eyes open. The trick was not to let the teachers realise you’d drifted off.

But it didn’t look like Mr Gaius was going to be talking to them today. After the usual preamble from the Head, it was actually Mr E who stepped up to the front of the stage.

“Good Morning everyone,”  he said. He was clutching a piece of paper littered with notes, and he kept scrunching and unscrunching it, as if he was nervous. “Thank you Mr Gaius for asking me to talk to you all this morning. I’ll try not to go on for too long. I wanted to talk to you this morning about something very dear to my heart, and very personal to me.”

Mr Gaius’s eyebrow was going up and down like a yo-yo. Mordred couldn’t help exchanging a glance and a wry smile with Kara. But then he tuned half an ear to the stage, whilst also sliding back into his reverie about Lance’s perfect thighs. No doubt Mr E was going to lecture them on road safety or something, but it’d be a good idea to keep listening in case they were interrogated about it in French, later.

“I suppose most or all of us can remember special pivotal moments in our lives,” Mr E was saying. “The moment when you realise that you’d rather bite your arm off than support Chelsea.” This statement was met with ripples of dutiful laughter. “The moment when quadratic equations finally click. That sort of thing!” Mr E paused, and cleared his throat.

“I remember when I first realised that I wanted to be a teacher. Actually, it was my mum who realised it first. She came into a room where I had lined all my Thomas the Tank Engine action figures and dinosaurs up in a row, and was lecturing them about their appalling spelling.”

Mr E grinned at the assembled teenagers, and there were more ripples of laughter.

Mordred found himself being drawn in, despite himself.

“I was four years old.” A collective sigh went up, accompanied by mutters of *aww* and *cute* from the girls.  

Mr E’s paused, then, and his face went serious. The room fell quiet. To his surprise, Mordred realised he was holding his breath, as if waiting for Mr E to say something astounding.

“But I’m not here to tell cheesy anecdotes about my childhood. I wanted to share something more important, more fundamental with you,” Mr E said, “Because, being that bit older than you, I’ve probably experienced more of those pivotal moments than most of you. The moment when I realised that my dad was never coming back. The day when my best mate died. Important things. Momentous things that change you – changed me – forever.”

The room was silent now.

“For many of us, a critical moment in our lives is when we fall in love for the first time. I remember when I first fell in love. Startling, brilliant, miraculous, maddening, dazzling love. A blaze of hedonistic desire, so powerful I had no control over it. And by some miracle, I was loved in return. Not forever, but for long enough for me to realise that my feelings were important. They were good, and true, and right. I began to feel that they were forever.”

“And then… and then…” Mr E swallowed. “And then, he died.”

All around him, Mordred could see people exchanging glances at the implication of that statement. Poor Mr E. But then he felt cold fingers of dread stealing round his heart. Mr E was gay. And Mr E was staying at their house. Everyone would think… what would they think?

“I suppose I’d always known that I didn’t feel the same way about girls as my friends. For a while this fact, that I was gay, set me apart from everyone. I didn’t tell anyone. I kept it a secret. And then, one day, I lost my love. He was gone forever. He had left me, like my Dad had. And I felt totally alone.”

Mordred was only listening with half an ear. Mr E couldn’t stay with them, not now. He felt a slow anger building in his chest. How dare Mr E put him in this position? Did Dad even know about this?

“But I was lucky. There were people who cared about me. There were people who asked me what was wrong. So, eventually, I told them. My friends, my mum. People who mattered, people I trusted. Dear friends. I put it into words for the first time. ‘I’m gay,’ I said. ‘I’m gay, and I was in love with a boy, and now he’s dead, and I wish I was, too.’

“And that’s when the real epiphany occurred, the real miracle. I was looking for disapproval, disgust, hatred, condemnation. But instead, I discovered kindness. I discovered understanding. I discovered trust, and mutual respect. I discovered friendship, and along the line, somehow, maybe even true love. And at the same time I discovered things that I didn’t know I needed; courage, confidence and self respect.

“This whole story, my story, of love and loss, despair and maybe hope, is a long one. There were crossed wires, broken hearts, and misunderstandings, and then I ended up moving to France. I’m not going to bore you with the details.

“But I wanted you to know, any of you who might be feeling conflicted about your sexuality, your gender, your feelings, that you are not alone. Don’t be afraid. You have friends and allies. More than you think. Talk to me. If you don’t think you can talk to your family, there are online resources you can look at. I’ll pin up a list at the end of this assembly.

“And you, the silent majority, you have an important job. Don’t be afraid of the bullies, haters and condemners, the nay-sayers. You know who the important people are. Support them. Give them your trust. Reach out to each other, reassure each other. Thank you!”

At first the end of Mr E’s speech was greeted with silence. But then someone – Mordred wasn’t surprised to see it was Kara – started clapping, and then a few more people joined in. Before long the whole school was applauding, a loud tumult that built to a crescendo.

Mordred joined in the clapping, half-heartedly, when Kara caught his eye.

But he didn’t feel like clapping. Oh, God, Dad was picking them both up after school today. He’d be sharing a car with Mr E, and the whole school would know.

The icy grip on his lungs intensified.

*

Mordred managed to stay quiet all the way home, pressing his forehead to the cool glass of the back-seat window of the Jag, and answering Dad’s questions with noncommittal grunts. Eventually Dad and Mr E gave up trying to talk to him, and carried on their conversation without him, which if anything made him feel even worse. By the time they got home, he was ready to explode.

“Make yourself at home, Merlin,” said Dad, glancing back at him with a frown. “I need to talk to my son, who seems to have forgotten his manners.”

Hurling his bag into the cupboard, he followed Dad into the kitchen and closed the door behind him.

“Right. Spill the beans.” said Dad, glaring at him. “I have never seen you act so rude. I thought I’d brought you up better than that.”

Mordred pointed at the closed kitchen door with a trembling finger. “Him. He can’t stay here.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “He goes or I go.”

Dad frowned and crossed his arms. “He’s my friend, and he—”

“I don’t care. I don’t want him here,” Mordred said, his voice trembling. “I’ll stay at Mum’s, or I… I… I’ll go to Kara’s.” He crossed his fingers, because he wasn’t sure Kara would have him at the moment, and at heart he was a truthful boy.  

“Listen, Mordred, it’ll just be for a few days while—”

“He’s a fucking poof, and I can’t have him in my house,” yelled Mordred, tears stinging his eyes.

Dad’s mouth dropped open. “ _What?_ I don’t believe you, Mordred! You are the last person I would think of as being homophob—”

“You don’t understand!” Mordred shouted, a knot of anxiety clenching at his chest. “No-one understands! He can’t stay here! He’s my _teacher_! And he’s a fucking poof! What will people think? What will they think of me?”

“I thought I’d brought you up to do the right thing, regardless of what people think, Mordred.” Dad looked all stern and forbidding, his eyes dark and hooded. “Besides which, if you’d listen for just a moment you’d realise that this isn’t about you, Mordr—”

“Fuck off Dad! This is my _home!_ ” Feeling great sobs bubbling up, now, hurting his chest, he pushed past Dad and wrenched open the kitchen door so that it burst open and banged on the wall behind him. “I hate you!” he added, not caring that Mr E could hear, just needing to let it out.

He ran up the stairs on wobbly legs, and slammed closed his door, sinking to the floor with his back to it.

“Mordred?” Dad hammered on his door. “Mordred! Open up.”

“No! Fuck off and leave me alone!” He screamed this as loudly as he could.

He could hear a quiet voice from downstairs, and then Dad retreated, leaving Mordred to his churning stomach and his dark, turbulent thoughts.  

Mr E was Dad’s friend. Mr E was gay. Mr E couldn’t stay with them, that was that. People would think… what would people think? He could just see Val’s sneering face now.

A small voice in his head, which started off sounding a bit like Dad’s but ended up with a whole lot of Kara in it, told him that he shouldn’t care what people like Val thought. The same small voice told him that it wasn’t up to him who Dad’s friends were.

Telling the small voice to shut up, he put Placebo on his headphones and drowned the world out in a haze of angst.

Later, much later, when his bladder was full, he stepped out into the hallway en route to the toilet. He could hear quiet voices downstairs, and outside his bedroom door was a congealing plate of risotto. He left it there. He wasn’t hungry anyway.

*

The thing was, he wasn’t homophobic. How could he be? He was just afraid. Afraid of being exposed, his most private self open for all to see. And he couldn’t understand what it must have taken for Mr E to stand up in front of the whole school and talk so calmly about such personal things, just because it was the right thing to do.

No, he wasn’t homophobic, and he wasn’t a coward.

The small voice came back and told him that he wasn’t fooling anyone.

He thought about calling his mum, for a second, but he didn’t want her coming round and being all judgmental at Dad, not really. Plus when he thought about it he realised that he’d rather stay here than at Mum’s, even with Mr E around. Dad had been positively jolly, recently; Mordred could see that Mr E was good for him.

By the time he drifted off to sleep he was beginning to think he might have over-reacted, just a little bit. Maybe it’d be okay for Mr E to come round from time to time. But not to stay, never that.

He resolved to talk to Dad in the morning.

*

Morning came, and with it the enticing smell of buttered mushrooms on toast.

Yawning, Mordred descended in his socks and pyjamas, ready to make his peace with Dad and with Mr E.

But Mr E wasn’t there, and Dad was standing at the cooker, staring into space like a zombie.

“Morning, Dad,” said Mordred.

Dad turned, and plated up some mushrooms, silently placing them in front of Mordred and then sitting at the table with a heavy sigh. There were dark circles under his eyes, which were all bloodshot. He hadn’t shaved. He looked like shit.

“These are lovely, Dad, thanks,” said Mordred, trying to make conversation.

Dad grunted and buried his face in his hands.

“I’ll get ready for football, then, shall I?”

Dad’s head nodded, spikes of dark-blond hair sticking out through his fingers.

“Mr E not up yet?”

Dad looked up, then, and when he finally spoke he looked like Christmas had been cancelled. Permanently. “Merlin left last night,” Dad said, rising to pick up Mordred’s plate, and turning away to put it in the sink with a crash.

Mordred should have felt more relieved. But when Dad turned round again, his bleak expression made him look older, like some light had gone out.

Mordred felt guilty, and he didn’t know why. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said, dumbly.

Dad’s jaw tensed, and he swallowed. With tension oozing from his rigid shoulders, Dad turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Mordred staring at a half-drunk cup of tea and an untouched plate of mushrooms.

“Hey, Dad, you didn’t eat your--”

But Dad was gone.

*

When Dad came to pick him up from football, though, he’d shaved and showered. He looked almost decent. Mordred was relieved. It’s not great, seeing your invincible dad looking all dejected, like that, especially when you have a horrible feeling it might be all your fault.

Mordred slung his kit-bag in the boot and sank into the comfortable seat of the Jag with a sigh. It’d been a good match; they’d just narrowly beaten Avalon 2-1, and Mordred had scored the winning goal.

He was still glowing from the post-match euphoria, and also feeling guilty, which might account for the fact that he finally found the courage to talk to his dad.

“I’m sorry about Mr E, Dad,” said Mordred. “I didn’t mean him to go away forever. It’s just… what with everyone knowing about him being gay, I freaked out a bit.” There. He’d said it.

“You didn’t freak out because he’s gay, then?” said Dad. “I’d hate to think I’d brought up a homophobic son.”

“No!” Mordred hoped his vehemence wasn’t too transparent. “It was more… it was more that everyone would say stuff. Stupid stuff. You know, the big kids and all that.”

“You shouldn’t let the bullies dictate your opinion, Mordred. They’re not picking on you are they?”

“No! And I know that! It’s just that… I… I just thought it might be weird to have him staying with us. Well, when I’m there, anyway. But, you know, I stay at Mum’s some of the time, right?”

Dad let out a half-laugh, half-snort. “Yeah, I know, Mordred. It’s okay. You have to know that you’re my first priority. You always will be.”

Mordred nodded. In truth, he felt a bit better, now. “Thanks, Dad.”

He fiddled with the stereo for a second, wondering whether this was the right time to finally tell his dad that he was gay.

He took a deep breath, and turned his head. He was going to do it. “Dad?”

“Yes, Mordred? Jesus!” A motorcyclist chose that moment to pull out in front of them. Dad swerved, cursing, and Mordred almost hit his head on the windscreen, but the tug of his seatbelt held him back. “Did you see that blithering idiot? I could have bloody killed him! Bloody motorbikes, they’re lethal. Now, what was it you wanted to ask me about?”

“Nothing.”

Maybe it’d be better to save that particular conversation for a moment when Dad wasn’t trying to concentrate on the road.  

*

But Dad had a big case on, which meant he was sitting in the kitchen surrounded by box files and talking into the phone all afternoon. After hanging around the kitchen for half an hour, Mordred found himself at rather a loose end.

Rather than waste all that new found determination, he decided to use it. “Use it or lose it,” Mum had once told him. Although she was talking about fitness at the time. But anyway, that was why he found himself standing outside Kara’s house, in the rain, again, pressing the doorbell repeatedly, with no discernable response from inside.

Turning away with a heavy heart, he dropped his feet heavily down the steps and started to walk along the glistening street, ignoring the impersonal swoosh of car tyres through all the puddles. That’s when he heard her voice.

“Mordred.” She was standing at the top of the steps, glaring at him, her mouth pursed into an angry rosebud. Without speaking again, she gave a little nod of her head, and then  disappeared back inside, leaving the door open.

Steeling himself for what was to come, he raced back up the steps and shuffled cautiously inside.

*

At least she didn’t make him wait outside. She ushered him into the kitchen without speaking, busying herself making him a cup of tea. His hands had gone numb; he hugged the tea gratefully and blew on it, raising little ripples on its surface, and she sat on the worktop, arms folded.

“Kara, erm, I’m, I’ve got. I mean, I need to say something.”

She didn’t reply, but her eyes narrowed slightly. It was so quiet in the house that he could hear a clock ticking in the next room. Tick tock. He had a sudden irrational desire to run out and silence it.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, to break the heavy atmosphere. “I should have stood up to Val, he’s an arse, and I was a coward, and I’m really sorry.”

There. He’d said it. His heart was still beating like a jackhammer, but he felt suddenly warmer.

“I hope you’ll accept my sincere apologies.” He opened his eyes wide, to show here how much he meant it. The worst of it out of the way, he felt one side of his mouth kinking up in a brief smile at his own pomposity. “It’s been horrible, not being friends with you.”

She still didn’t speak, but her frown softened a little bit. Clearly he had more grovelling to do.

“I’d do anything to make it up to you, Kara, really.”

That’s when finally she smiled and spoke. “Anything? Seriously?”

“Yeah! Anything!”

“Brilliant, I’ve got just the thing?” She jumped down from the worktop, and strode out of the tiny kitchen into the lounge, where she rummaged about in the drawer where she kept her school things. She grasped a piece of paper triumphantly and flashed it at him. “Here! You can help me with this, yeah?”

“All right, let me look at it, then!”

Ever mercurial, she gave him a soft, sweet smile and planted an impulsive kiss to his cheek. “You’re, like, the best friend, ever, Mordred? And you’re, like, gonna love this, yeah?” She patted him on the arm and laughed as if she was the happiest person alive, giddy with sheer euphoria of him being her friend again. It made him feel all warm inside. “I’m setting up a new club, and it’s going to be, like brilliant? Totally brilliant. It’s going to transform our school, and all I need you to do is to join?”

She chattered on in the same vein. It was difficult to resist Kara when she was being sweet, like this. Realising that he was going to get away without having to endure the expected tantrum, he felt the last vestiges of that horrible, heavy feeling soar away into the clouds outside.

“All right, all right! I’m in!” he said, laughing and hugging her. “Sounds great, where do I sign?”

Curious, he cast his eye over the multi-coloured piece of A4 paper she handed him. It was set out like one of those crazy school advertisements for new clubs, all sparkly gel-pen ink and exclamation marks. His brief moment of euphoria was replaced with genuine horror when he examined the content.

In big letters at the top of the sheet it said: “NEW: Camelot Comprehensive School LGBT Alliance!”

Beneath that in smaller letters, it stated “Come and join us in togetherness!”

And then, underneath that, in capitals, it said “Next week, Mr Emrys, our guest of honour, will kick off the new club with a bang! Next week is Pride Week! Wear your Alliance badges with pride!”

The blood drained out of his face. He thought he could feel it seeping into his feet. “What? Fucking hell, Kara, are you trying to kill me?” His hand started to shake.

Her face fell then, and she slumped onto the sofa, looking crestfallen.

“Wait. Kara, are you lesbian? Shit. That was insensitive. I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not,” she said quietly, her voice a bit wobbly. “I’m straight, actually? But I just think it’s the right thing to do. I can’t do it on my own, though, Mords.” She bit her lip and looked up at him with watery-looking eyes. “Please say you’ll help.”

Kara had always been one of those save-the-whale hippy types, with her hemp bags and her cranky old bike and her fairtrade African jewellery from Oxfam. Her dad had been much the same, when he was alive. As he stared down at her he felt his heart fill with something, he thought it might be pity for a moment, and then he realised it wasn’t, it was something much bigger and stronger than that.

Pride.

“Kara,” he blurted out, without thinking, feeling his chest swell and his mouth split his face wide open in a brilliant, he hoped, smile, “I am. Well, I’m not, obviously! I’m not a lesbian, I mean! But I am.” He took a deep breath, and thought about Mr E. being brave enough to come out to the whole school in assembly, and how the world had not ended, and actually there were some kids who clapped. Most of the school, in fact. “I’m gay.” He gnawed his lip as if to bite back the words, horrified at himself. What had he just done?

She looked at him and smiled back through her tears.

“Well, duh!” she said.

And that was that.

Ten minutes of hugging and crying later, the Camelot Comprehensive School Rainbow Alliance was born.

It was late, by the time he got home, and Dad was asleep in front of _Match of the Day_ , so Mordred crept up to bed.

*

The frost was hard, and sunlight sparkled on the fractured ice-puddles on the road. Mordred tugged his scarf close round his neck, his breath billowing out in ghostly clouds.

“Where are they?” said Kara, bounding up to him with an accusing expression on her face, as if she thought he’d chicken out at the last minute!

Stung, he swivelled round on his feet so she could see his “Camelot Rainbow Alliance” badge, pinned to his bag. “There!” Tugging off his glove, he pointed at the rainbow-coloured band that encircled his wrist. “And there!”

“Good.” She smiled at him then, and slipped her arm through his. “Wouldn’t want you getting cold feet now!”

“Difficult to see how I can avoid that in this weather!” he joked.

“Mordred!”

“Sorry.”

“Sefa’s wearing one and she’s, like, distributed them to all her friends?” said Kara, examining her nails, also painted, Mordred noticed, in rainbow colours. “And Daegal’s going to help out on the stall?”

“Daegal?” What was happening to everyone?

“Everyone’s going to want one, you’ll see!” She looked down and fiddled with her wristband.

“Thanks, Kara,” said Mordred, softly. “You’re way braver than me.”

She snorted, bashing him hard on the arm. “Hah. That’s not hard?” Sighing, she looked across the playing field where the trees were just shedding their final vestiges of frost. “Anyway, it’s not braveness? I have to do this. My dad would have liked it…”

Understanding what she hadn’t said, Mordred squeezed her arm.

“It was only just over a year ago?” she added, still staring at the trees.

Mordred thought about dates, and when the realisation hit him with all the blood drained out of his face. “Oh my God. You weren’t in school. Shit. I’m so sorry. I’ve been a rubbish friend, recently, Kara. I’m really sorry I haven’t been there for you recently...”

“It’s okay?” she flashed him a wan smile. “You’d think I’d be over it by now, anyway! It’s been a whole year!”

Grief doesn’t work like that, Mordred knew, although thankfully not from personal experience, but Kara didn’t seem to want to pursue the subject, so he didn’t say anything else about it. He shuffled his cold feet, awkwardly, instead, and squeezed her arm again.

“Fat lot of help you’d have been, anyway?” she said, smiling.

“I’m rubbish at things like that, I’m so...” he started to say again, but she wouldn’t let him carry on.

“Stop apologising, idiot,” she said. “For your penance you can help me with my maths homework? I think that’s more in your comfort zone?”

*

The badges were attractively designed, with sparkling rainbows on them and a slogan that said “I’m proud of my gay friends”. You had to look quite closely to see the slogan, but even so Mordred felt oddly naked, like he was wandering round the school with his secrets bared for all to see. He felt a knot of anxiety coiling, ever-tighter, in his chest.

By lunchtime, he was tense and jumpy. Sefa, Daegal and Kara had set up a stall in the dining room, and the four of them were selling badges and wristbands to raise money for the alliance. A steady stream of mostly Year 9s dropped by to buy them. Mordred hovered in the background for a bit, surprised by how many there were. When Val and his cronies came over, Mordred turned his back, heart pounding, and tried to look busy with a box of wrist bands.

“What’s this?” Val’s rough, accusing voice. “ _I’m proud of my gay friends,”_ he added, reading out the slogan in a grating falsetto. “That’s so fucking gay! Bunch of fucking poofs, the lot of you!”

“Fuck off, Val, you homophobic ape,” said Kara.

Sefa and Daegal stepped back, leaving Kara exposed and alone at the front of the stall.

Val flashed her an unpleasant smile, and turned the table over, sending its contents crashing to the floor in a noisy flurry of badges, wristbands, coins and tupperware boxes.

On the other side of the canteen, Mr E, noticing the disturbance, frowned and started to walk over. “Hey!” he shouted. “Stop that!”

Mordred, furious, stepped right up to Val and poked his finger in his face. “You’ve gone too far, this time,” he said, feeling his mouth narrow to a tight rosebud, while Sefa and Daegal ferreted around on the floor picking things up. “You’re the one who’s out on a limb, here.” Unable to resist the prompting of his rage, he put his hands in the centre of Val’s chest, and pushed, as hard as he could. Dad was going to kill him for starting a fight, but he couldn’t let Val talk to Kara like that, he just couldn’t.

It was depressing how he failed to budge Val from his spot. Val just rocked, a bit, and laughed, indicating Julius, who was flexing his not inconsiderable knuckles, and Percy, by his side. “Fuck off, you pathetic, lousy bender! Get him, Percy!”

Mordred closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact of Percy’s fist on his nose. Percy was built like a tank. Percy’s shoulders were so wide he had to turn sideways to get through the loo door. But to Mordred’s surprise, nothing happened. His eyes flicked open again.

Percy was shaking his head.

“Nah, mate,” he said, in a surprisingly soft voice, as he stooped to pick up a load of wristbands and deposit them back into the appropriate tupperware container. “Mordred’s right. You’re on your own, mate. How much for one o’ them wristbands?”

“A pound,” said Sefa, smiling winsomely at Percy, and fluttering her lashes.

The expression on Val’s face was worth a million times that.

And that’s when Mr E finally arrived, missing all the action as usual. But after giving Val a detention for inappropriate use of school property, he did treat them to a warm smile when he bought two of everything, left them a ten quid note, and told them to keep the change.

Sefa and Kara’s squealing must have wafted down the corridor in his wake, but he didn’t turn round.

*

What with one thing and another two weeks passed remarkably quickly. Before he could blink it was Thursday, and Dad was picking him up after football again. It would be half term next week - only one more Friday to go and then they’d be off for a whole week. He was going to spend half the week at Dad’s and the other half at Mum’s.

He’d just finished shaking hands with the other team when Lance jogged over to him. Mordred was delighted to see that he was wearing a “Rainbow Alliance” badge pinned to his scarf.

“I just wanted to say that it was deeply honourable of you and Kara to create that club,” Lance said, smiling that twinkly-eyed smile that made Mordred’s knees turn to water.

“Thank you,” said Mordred, his voice embarrassingly squeaky all of a sudden. At that moment, Lance clapped him on the back, the heat from his large hands penetrating through Mordred’s thin, sweaty football shirt, and Mordred thought he’d die of happiness.

Elated, Mordred ran up to Dad when he’d finished showering, chucking his kit into the boot of the Jag with a thud.

“Nice play, Mordred,” Dad said. Then his eyes widened and he looked over Mordred’s shoulder. Mordred turned to see someone tall and thin, clad in black leather, mounting what looked like an antique motorbike. As they watched, the figure made some vigorous movements with his legs and hands, and the machine coughed like an asthmatic a few times, before eventually gunning into noisy life. Years ago, Mordred had gone to the zoo, and one of the lions had roared so loudly that it made the ground shake. This motorbike sounded a bit like that. “Bloody hell. The idiot.”

“What? Who’s that?” Mordred thought the figure looked familiar, but couldn’t see his face under the helmet.

Dad smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “Merlin,” he said. “Looks like his bike is finally fixed. Bloody thing’s a death trap.”

It looked cool to Mordred, but he still felt a strange twinge of guilt clutch at his heart. “Sorry, Dad.”

Dad sighed. “It’s not your fault he’s a reckless idiot,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get you home. I’ve still got some chocolate brownies left over…”

That’s when the pang of guilt got worse. Dad only did baking when he was really bored and lonely.

It didn’t stop him eating the brownies, though. They were bloody marvellous.

*

It had been two weeks since he actually told Kara that he was gay. Two whole weeks, and the world hadn’t come tumbling down.

So it was over a cup of tea and some toast and marmalade that he finally told his dad. It was a bit of an anticlimax, after all that.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Mordred?” Dad peered at him over the top of the sport section of the Saturday _Times_.

“I’m gay.” That was it. Bald, flat words that hid the way his heart was thumping and his ears were ringing with tension. “I was going to tell you in the car yesterday, but I didn’t want you to crash.”

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but in the end all Dad did was lowered the paper and looked at him, with a dopey grin creeping all over his face.

“That’s my boy. I’m so proud of you, Mordred,” he said. He didn’t look ashamed, or even surprised, he just looked pleased. “That’s my brave, truthful son.” Dropping the paper, he leaned forward and took Mordred’s hand between both of his, holding his gaze. “I’ve always been proud of you, you know that. But never more than in this moment. It takes guts to be open about such a private thing.”

His eyes were very blue in the cold morning light that trickled in through the kitchen window, and he looked so earnest, so sincere in that moment that Mordred knew it was true.

“Thanks’ Dad,” he said, smiling back, all the vestiges of that horrible heavy, sluggish feeling lifting off his heart for good.

There might have been some decidedly un-British back-slapping and hugging at that point, and Dad had to blow his nose, but then they fixed that by playing FIFA 15, in a thoroughly manly way, on the X-Box until it was time to go out and play football.

 

And it was only later, when they were sitting down to watch _Match of the Day_ , that Dad dropped his bombshell. They were just chatting about why Harry Kane was such a joy to watch, and why Tottenham had managed to develop such an outstanding talent, and why Arsenal should bloody well get their act together, when Dad just came out with it.

“I’m glad you told me, Mordred,” he said, idly popping a peanut into his mouth.

“Don’t tell Mum, okay?”

“No, that’s up to you. But I hardly think, given her current living arrangements, that she’s going to say anything untoward.”

Mordred frowned, and was just digesting this weird snippet when Dad detonated the bomb.  

“Of course, I had a boyfriend, when I was a bit older than you,” he said, crunching on the nut.

“ _What?_ You? You did?” Realising he was gaping like a beached goldfish, Mordred shovelled in another nut as well. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah. He was… amazing.” for a moment Dad just sat there, chewing, dewy-eyed with the memory, and then he swallowed. “But yeah, then I went to university and he had to move to France. So it fizzled out, I suppose. But it was pretty intense at the time. I mean, it was pretty bad when he left.” Dad’s mouth turned down at the edges and it made Mordred feel sad too. “And then your mother and I got together. So it’s all water under the bridge now.”

Mordred was sure he wasn’t imagining the regret in his father’s voice.  

“Bloody hell,” he said, again, and Dad didn’t even tell him off for swearing.

*

After it was all over, he couldn’t really work out what came first. The phone call, or the terrifying moment when his father stopped being a superhero, an omnipotent, all-wise being, and turned into a human.

When Mordred was a kid, his parents knew everything. They’re were his personal Google. They could deal with any situation, never got anything wrong, never did anything naughty. Probably for some kids it wasn’t like that, and you’d have thought that the painful separation and divorce would have clued Mordred in, but he had been lucky, or something, because it had taken him this long, taken him till he was nearly fifteen years old, to realise.

Parents aren’t perfect. Parents make mistakes. And sometimes, sometimes even superheroes get badly hurt.

He was having a dream, when the phone call came. In his dream, there was a man on a motorbike, turning a corner, and Dad was shouting at the rain coming down stair rods onto the car windscreen. Then the motorbike turned into a dragon, with the man still riding on it, and breathed fire all over their car. Alarms went off all over the place, clanging bells and ringing sirens. Mordred screamed, and woke up, and the phone was ringing. And at that moment, he knew.

Of course.

Dad’s boyfriend… had gone to France. Mr E had gone to France.

Mr E was gay.

Mr E and his dad…

He had to know. Heart thundering in his chest, he leaped out of bed to confront his dad. He pulled on his dressing-gown, because it was cold, and downstairs he could hear his dad answering the phone.

“What?” Dad was saying. His voice was all distant and broken. “Jesus! No! Where?”

Silently, now, like he was interrupting something, Mordred slunk down the stairs, the wooden bannister rough under his fingertips.

“I… I’ll be there as soon as I can. Is he… is he conscious? How bad…?”  

“Dad?”

“Not now, Mordred.” Dad’s eyes glittered black in the wan light in the hallway. He was pulling on a coat, over his pyjamas, the phone jammed to his ear.  “Go back to bed, son.” He turned back to the phone. “No, I’m his emergency contact, his mother… I… she lives in Wales… Yes I can call her but… please tell me he’s going to be okay... No, I realise that. Okay. I will. But please, call me straight away on my mobile if… oh God.” Dad was breathing very hard, and he sat down, heavily, on the chair in the hall. “Thanks… I’ll hold.”

“Dad?” Mordred wanted to ask Dad whether Mr E  was his old boyfriend, wanted to know the truth, but when Dad looked up, so that the hall light shone dimly onto his face, Dad looked so tense and anxious that he couldn’t say it. “Dad? Is everything all right?” He said, instead. “What’s happened? It’s not mum is it? or Uncle Cenred?”

“No, son,” whispered Dad, absently slapping his hand, again and again, with the phone. “It’s Merlin.”

At that moment Mordred knew, he didn’t need to ask Dad about it any more, because the desolate expression on Dad’s face, and the splinters in his voice, told him everything he needed to know.

“He’s… that was the hospital,” Dad went on. “That fucking motorbike!” He slammed his fist viciously into the wall with a sudden burst of energy, making Mordred jump. “I need to get over there.” He stood up, the receiver still jammed to his ear. “Yes? Oh thank God. Yes I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He pressed the kill button on his phone and drew a breath. “He’s conscious. He’s in X-Ray at the moment. I’ll know more soon. Look, Mordred, will you be all right if I… I need to go.”

“Wait. I’m coming with you.” Mordred was already running up the stairs. He couldn’t let Dad drive over there, not looking like this. He didn’t look like he would even be able to focus. “And can we get a cab? I don’t want you to crash the car.”

*

Whoever had designed hospitals had gone out of their way to make sure they were as unwelcoming and boring as earthly possible, presumably so that you did everything in your power to avoid going there.

Camelot hospital’s Accident and Emergency unit was smaller than some, and less intimidating than most, but on a Saturday night it was still full of drunks and tramps, Camelot’s unsavoury and chaotic underbelly. They were ushered into a waiting room, its bright, stark lighting casting an unforgiving eye over the collection of bleeding, broken and barely conscious individuals who were waiting in triage. Mordred sat, for what seemed like hours, wedged between his father and an enormously fat man who stank of cheap spirits and was clutching his arm, moaning.

Ah, yes, the wait.

Mordred hadn’t been brought up to be religious, but he’d been taught that Catholics had a place called Purgatory, where the damned lined up to suffer for a bit before they were allowed into heaven. He supposed Purgatory must be rather similar to the A&E department of a British hospital on a Saturday night. His musing was punctuated by the screams and groans of blighted unfortunates. Purgatory indeed. He was glad he wasn’t a Catholic.

Dad seemed to be suffering too. His face looked pinched, and there was a deep vertical furrow on his forehead, which normally meant he had a migraine. His legs kept jigging up and down which was a sure sign that he was anxious. Eventually, a tired-looking nurse, referring to a clipboard, called for “Mr Pendragon” and beckoned to them both to follow him down a corridor, where a row of beds was curtained off.

“Hi. I’m Elyan Smith, I’m the triage nurse tonight,” said the nurse, whose dark complexion did not hide his fatigue. “You’re Mr Emrys’s emergency contact? Come in, you look like your night’s been almost as long as mine.”

“Thanks,” said Dad. “Is he going to be okay?”

“The doctor’s with him now, she can tell you more. He’s has just come back from X-Ray,” said Elyan, “but I think, from what I’ve seen, that he’s had a lucky escape this time. Unfortunately, it sounds like his motorbike is a complete write-off.”

“Well, we can be grateful for small mercies,” said Dad with a tight, joyless smile. “In here?”

“Yes.”

The curtain swished open and they went inside. Mr E was sitting on the bed. He didn’t speak when they came in, but that was mainly because there was a plastic gas mask over his face. His eyes followed them in, and the heart monitor beside him sped up.

Mordred stood between the curtains, suddenly uncertain. Mr E’s face looked okay at first, but he was deathly pale, and then Mordred could see a heavy gash down one side, and his cheek looked all scraped and bruised. His neck was held in a white collar. The arm and leg on the injured side both looked heavily bandaged. His arm was in a sling across his chest, and the leg was elevated, knee slightly bent, on a blue foam cushion.

There weren’t any chairs or anything, so Dad just walked over and took Mr E’s other hand.

“Bloody idiot,” he said, sounding like he’d been gargling with nails. His back looked stiff and tense, but he stroked Mr E’s hand so gently and tenderly that it made Mordred feel uncomfortable, like he was intruding on something. “Thought I’d lost you. Again.”

Mr E’s eyes softened, then they seemed to slide out of focus before fluttering closed.

“He’s sedated,” said the woman who was standing on the other side of the bed. She looked exhausted. “Your husband will probably be out of it for a while. He’s in a lot of pain. I’m Dr Godwin, by the way.”

“Will he recover, Dr Godwin?” said Dad, softly, not bothering to correct her assumption about their relationship.

“Yes, he should do, in time. The leg is fractured. He was lucky. Motorcyclists often get terrible crush injuries, and road rash is not as much fun as it sounds, but he was wearing good protective gear. He’s got concussion.  Broken wrist. But there’s no internal bleeding, and his spine is intact. The neck brace is just a precaution for now.”

Dad made a weird sound, then, a sort of a gasping noise, and his shoulders jogged up. But it was only when he brought his free hand up to his forehead and started to shake his head that Mordred realised that he was actually crying.

That was the impetus he needed to slipped in through the curtains and grab Dad’s other hand. “It’s going to be okay Dad,” he said, hardly believing it himself, but just wanting his Dad to stop crying, because Dad shouldn’t ever look like this, Dad shouldn’t look wrecked and lost and vulnerable, he just shouldn’t! “You heard the doctor. He’s going to be okay.”

Dad nodded, swallowing, and looked at him through shining, unseeing eyes. But he didn’t let go Merlin’s hand.

“I’ll go and get you a chair,” said Mordred. Not knowing what else he could do, he patted Dad’s arm. “Don’t go anywhere!”

Dad just nodded again.  

*

When Mr E came out of hospital, there was no question about where he was going to stay to recover.

“I’ll be perfectly all right, Arthur,” he protested at first. “You’ve been kindness itself, but I don’t want to impose…”

Dad had been in to see him every day, and had taken loads of time off work. Mordred was glad it had happened on a weekend he was at Dad’s, because it meant he could make sure Dad didn’t crash the car when he drove to and from the hospital.  

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” said Dad, opening the lid on the box of Mordred’s home-made refrigerator biscuit cake and waving it tantalisingly close to Mr E’s good hand, which grabbed ineffectually at it. “Mordred and I are in complete agreement. You’re staying with us and that’s that.”

“But what about—” Mr E finally managed to secure a large square of cake, which he started to devour with small, contented moans. “Bloody hell. This is fantastic, Mordred.”

“Thanks, Mr E.”

“There you see,” said Dad, snatching away the cake with a triumphant expression on his face. “You know you can’t resist home cooking, the Pendragon way.”

“Give it back, you bully!”

“Not until you agree to come and stay with us!”

“You are an arrogant, supercilious, ass, and I hate you!”

“Ah… ah…?” Dad’s eyebrows lifted as he moved his arm further away from Mr E’s reach.

“Jesus!” Mr E sighed. “I might as well argue with a steamroller, you stubborn, irritating…”

“Say please, and that you’ll stay, and then you can have it back.”

“Fine! Please can I have the rest of that delicious cake, and please can I stay with you, because obviously I have as much control over my destiny as bloody Cnut had over the tides, and who cares if I’ll be as big as a hippo after a couple of weeks of this!” With an air of satisfaction, Mr E took back the cookie. “’S bloody good Mordred. Thanks.”

Mordred didn’t know how he’d not realised, before, about Dad and Mr E. They were like something between an old married couple, and a pair of flirting teenagers.

To be honest, he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather his Dad hooked up with.

But he had no idea how to tell him that.

That night, after Dad had gone to bed and the house was quiet, he lay awake for ages, racking his brains for a subtle way to tell Dad he knew he and Mr E were together, and he was okay with it. But before he knew it, the grey dawn light was filtering through his curtains and he was still no closer to a resolution.

*

It was such a relief, being friends with Kara again. They sat in his room, munching Dad’s home-made muffins, and researching stuff for the Rainbow Alliance. He’d told Kara about that project that helps depressed gay kids, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what it was called.

“Why don’t you just check out your internet history?” she said, matter-of-factly, gazing at her nails, newly painted black.

“My what?”

She stared at him, her lips apart in mock horror. “You do know what your internet history is, don’t you, Mordred?”

There’s a hot, prickly feeling you get when you know you’ve done something stupid, and you can’t for the life of you think what it is. Mordred felt it creep over him now. He shook his head dumbly. “Nope.”

She sighed, patiently, like a primary school teacher confronted with a chocolate-smeared toddler, and guided his hand on the mouse.

Mordred’s heart dropped.

“Fuck! You can see bloody everyth--”

“Language, Mordred!” She looked at him with a curious expression on her face. “You really didn’t know about this?”

“No!”

“When were you looking for online resources?”

“A couple of weeks ago?“

And there it was. He pointed with a shaking finger at the screen. “That’s it. The Trevor Project. That’s it.” He couldn’t believe it. The whole of it, his entire gay crisis, was mapped out in URLs spanning the previous two months. “Jesus!”

“Don’t panic, Mordred! It’s okay, you can delete it. Wait, what’s that?”

She pointed to an entry he didn’t recognised, and clicked it. The link took her to a reddit article that he didn’t remember reading.

The article contained a question from a father, asking how to tell his 14-year old son he knows he’s gay, and loves him no matter what. Mordred read on, his heart pounding.

“God, Kara!” he said, eventually, looking up. “Dad… Dad must have written this! He knew about it all along!”

She smiled at him. “Yes, and he’s left it here as a message to you.”

He grinned back, suddenly knowing what to do.

_*_

_Epilogue_

One of the nice things about being openly gay, at home, was that he could have Kara round for a sleepover, and Dad didn’t make her sleep in the spare room. Which was just as well, because that's where Mr E was sleeping. Mordred didn’t _officially_ know that Dad slept in there with him, of course.

Now that he was out and proud, Kara was allowed to sleep in his room, which was brilliant, because she was way better than him at going downstairs in the middle of the night to get snacks. She had an amazing knack for sneaking. It was one of her top talents.

He was a bit concerned, though. She’d been gone for ages, and he was getting a bit peckish. Sighing, he cast his duvet aside and padded over to the door as quietly as he could.

He could see her, crouched half way down the stairs, peering through the banisters. When she looked up, her eyes glistened orange by the faint light of the fire, which was glowing on the other side of the open lounge door. As he approached her, she lifted her finger to her lips, and pointed into the lounge.

There, on the sofa, he could just make out the faint outline of his Dad, and Mr E, Mr E’s broken leg stretched out to one side. They were locked in what appeared to be a thoroughly satisfying snog, with Dad’s leg wrapped round Mr E’s waist, hands tangled in Mr E’s messy hair.

“They’re so cute,” mouthed Kara.  

Dad, who must have the hearing of a cat, broke off the kiss and frowned at them both through the door, bellowing, “Bed, Mordred!”

“Okay, Dad,” said Mordred, smirking. “Enjoy _Match of the Day_!”

The two of them scampered up to his room and slammed the door shut behind them, crying with laughter.

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This story was inspired by this heartwarming article:  
> http://www.pinknews.co.uk/2014/11/17/dad-asked-reddit-how-to-help-his-son-come-out-as-gay/
> 
> also this one:  
> http://www.buzzfeed.com/rossalynwarren/a-teacher-who-came-out-to-his-whole-school-received-a-beauti#.tc5oBR7Gw


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